Warning: long post with some gruesome bits (and a bonus curse word)

In my last post, which was a harmless piece of fluff about cooking dinner, a commentor wrote:
"Ahem, I had no idea lamb legs could so peacefully coexist with being a buddhist. . ."

Quite a spirited conversation about vegetarianism followed. I commend all involved for their seemingly good spirits and courtesy. As Obama has said, "We can disagree without being disagreeable."

Now, when I discuss "issues", I always try to use myself as an example. I may read, and read quite a bit, but I tend not to intellectualize. I speak from my experience in the world, and hope that by doing so, I present a jumping off point for others to respond as they wish. I try not to push any dogma at others. I have my opinions, and some of them are pretty extreme, but these are mostly about aesthetics, so I care not a whit if anyone agrees with me.

That being said, I realized that as far as eating goes, I've become almost totally mindless.

So, I'll tell my story, and you can take away from it what you will (not like I could stop you from doing otherwise):

Many long years ago, I bought chickens from a Buddhist farm outside of New York City. They raised their chickens well, but did not cut them up and put them into nice clean packages for sale. You got your chicken whole, wrapped in brown paper, and had to deal with the fact that in order to eat it, you needed to cut off it's head, feet and pull out all the internal organs. Thinking back, I'm surprised they didn't ask you to kill your own chickens. Thinking now, I'm surprised they were doing this at all, but it was a good way to get city people to think about the food they eat, so it does make sense.

I remember struggling with those chickens. In order to cut off the chickens' heads, I needed to place a cloth over them. I did it anyway and always felt badly about it. That was a big red flag that I didn't feel right about it.

And so, I stopped eating meat after a while, only for the fact that I felt if I couldn't kill the animal or even cut it's head off after it was killed for me, I had no business eating it.

At that time, I worked at a historical museum where I lead children's field trips. When we gathered around in the kitchen, I'd always ask the children what they thought people ate in the 1700's. They'd usually yell out "Chicken!" and perhaps a few would say "Hot Dogs! Hamburgers!" but that was essentially it. I asked them, "Do you think people went to the store and bought their chicken wrapped up in plastic?" Plastic was the give-away word, and kids are smart, so they'd all yell "No!" What did they eat? Squirrels. Rabbits. Pigeons were very popular, and still can be bought in stores in England. The kids would squirm and say "Ew!" when I gave them a list of cute little animals that people could eat (and still do).

I wasn't trying to turn them into vegetarians, but I was telling them the truth.

So, I couldn't face up to the idea of even cutting up my dead chickens, and then I read John Robbins' "Diet for a New America", which goes into enormous detail about the horrors of factory farming. No more meat for me. That was that.

Then two things happened. I moved to a rural Maine and started raising sheep. I also spent some time at a Buddhist monastery. Now, you'd think neither of these things would do anything to make me stop being a vegetarian, but they did.

I knew nothing about raising animals, and had a number of mentors. All of these people raised animals in the most humane ways possible. I was raising my sheep for their fleece, but others were raising their animals for meat. If they had sheep, fleece was secondary, except for the few people I knew who had very expensive pure breds, and those folks, most of them, were not trying to make a living. Nor were they trying to feed famillies. I knew people who made their own bacon and sausages, smoked turkey and all sorts of meat specialties. I never touched any of that stuff, even though it smelled great, and I insulted quite a few people by not at least sampling their delicacies.

One day I was hanging around at this fellow's house while he was cooking up some bacon. I've always loved bacon. I kept saying "that smells great", over and over again. Fakin' Bacon just never cut it, but I didn't really care. That day, I was salivating. This fellow was one of those Mainers who doesn't say much. He helped me out so much when I needed help with great straightforward advice, such as the day I found one of my ewes walking around with a couple of hoofs hanging out her back end. I called him up and said "What do I do?" He said, "Just reach in there and pull out that lamb!" That was the longest sentence I'd ever heard him utter. Anyway, he got quite tired of hearing me moan about how good that bacon smelled and stuck a plate under my note and said, "Eat the fucking bacon." When a person like that curses, you do what they say. So I ate it, and it was delicious.

Still, I was a vegan. I had a slip. That's all.

That winter, I stayed at a monastery and almost everyone was ill for months. I heard that they decided later that a little bit of meat in the diet was okay, though not mandatory for all, but it was decided that us Northerners needed it to stay healthy and active during the winter. I didn't think that made that much sense, but at this well-respected monastery, people also smoked cigarettes and drank quite a bit, both things that this new-to-Buddhism person just assumed were things good Buddhists did not do.

Combine that with missing bacon, sausage, cigarettes and booze and I was fired up and ready to return to my past hedonistic ways.

And so, here I am. I don't smoke cigarettes any more, barely drink, and I do eat meat, but not every day. I feel comfortable with what I think of, if I think of it at all, as "moderation". But the thing is, until today, I haven't been thinking about how I feel about eating meat for years.

The comments I read today, along with some Buddhist reading I did earlier, got me thinking. I have no idea what I feel about this subject. Do I even care? I'm going to be brutally honest. I don't even know the answer to that.

So, you've read this far (perhaps) and I have no conclusion for you. I'm glad that I posted yesterday's fluff, for it banged open a window that's been shut for years. Will I stop eating meat? Just thinking about not doing so makes me anxious. Since returned to being an omnivore, I've developed quite the taste for meat, and besides, Dick is an amazing barbecue guy. It would be quite a blow to him if I stopped eating his outrageously delicious locust cooked ribs.

This is the end of the post. A history. Some questions. For me. And if you want to lay it on me, have a spirited argument with me, bring it on! I'm not defending myself. I have no defense. And, I've gotten quite attached to eating meat. The idea of glazed duck makes my mouth water. I'm thinking, "Is this another red flag?"

Photo note: Glazed Duck with Clementine Sauce

Addendum: I re-read this hours later and found that in editing, I had garbled some sentences. What I accidentally wrote is quite funny: . . .I've developed quite the taste for the truth, and besides, Dick is an amazing barbecue guy.

Well, I can't deny that one, though facing the truth is quite another thing.

Saffron and red robes (I heart your blog)

I just deleted a post. I was writing in a style that is not my own. It's because of TMC. Her playful spirit is infectious. Her blog, Return to Rural, brings a smile to my face.

She's funny in a wry and often self-deprecating way. She lavishes praise on others without being soppy. She posts contests, games, and all sorts of pay-it-forward activities. She brings folks together. Do you realize this, TMC?

I was writing (and deleted) some stuff about how "I HEART her blog". I have no idea how to put a heart symbol where the word "heart" is. TMC does.

I was trying to be nice but a little bit snarky. Trying to be is not being.

Then I thought about how we're both Buddhists. She wrote that she wanted to be a Buddhist nun, and if she was, she'd be wearing saffron and red robes.

I once thought that I might be better suited to living the life of a monk, but if I were to become one, what color robes would I be wearing? Black, gray and white.

Buddhism hooks people in different ways and sometimes, I think, it's externals that get you at first. Now, I have no idea how TMC got to be a Tibetan Buddhist, but I know this about myself: I love the austerity of Zen. I love the stories of these crazy stoics, like Huike, who stood outside the Bodhidharma's cave until the falling snow had reached his waist. This was still not enough to prove to the Bodhidharma that he deserved his teachings, so Huike cut off his left arm to show his sincerity.

The ardent students of old would tie themselves up so that they would not fall over when they were in meditation if sleepiness came upon them. Zen tales are overflowing with masters hitting their disciples with sticks. Kwat! You fool!

But, when the Dalai Lama laughs, we all laugh. We cut off our arms with Huike, too.

Thanks, TMC. I do heart your blog.

Image note: From BananaFrog, who make beautiful, fun and playful paper goodies.

Addendum: And I forgot, she is the one who roped me into writing a novel in a month. Мне виноваты вы! Je vous reprocher! 我譴責你！ Yo culpo a ti! मैं तुम्हें दोष! Ich Schuld Sie! 私はあなたのせい！ But: Vi ringrazio per ispirazione a fare qualcosa che non ho mai pensato ho potuto fare, anche se probabilmente è un mucchio di vapore caldo cane merda su un pomeriggio di agosto. Vedi, io maledizione!

A path of one's own

Before I left for my retreat, someone said something to me about my "spirituality". I, as always, replied that I had no idea what that concept meant. I don't.

In spite of that, I tell others that without a spiritual life, I probably wouldn't be "okay", or even alive, for that matter. I tell others who are not getting anywhere in therapy that I believe that the answer to their suffering ultimately lies in finding a spiritual base.

So, why do I bandy around a word that I don't understand?

Well, for one thing, I don't know what other word to use.

When I suggest to other people that they find a spiritual path, I don't proselytize for mine. I do recommend meditation to anyone, but it doesn't matter what "brand" that is. Meditation is just plain ol' good for people: it helps settle the mind. Scientific studies have proven it also promotes good physical health, helps people deal with difficult situations and with chronic pain. It doesn't remove problems, but a regular meditation practice inbues anyone with more equanimity than they would overwise have. How could one knock that?

Why do I practice Zen Buddhism instead of Tibetan Buddhism (or any number of other contemplative practices)? The answer is very simple and has nothing to do with relative merits. I like it.

Finding ones' path is like fishing, with us as the fish. We get "hooked" by something that resonates within us. We also may be put off by things that don't, and so we keep on searching.

Here's how I got involved with Zen and why I've stuck around for so long:

One day I was in a tiny bookstore with barely stocked shelves. My companion (now forgetten) was engrossed in reading a book and I knew we'd not be leaving soon. I was standing in the "Religion" section of the store, which had about a dozen books on it. "Everyday Zen: Love and Work", by Charlotte Joko Beck was sitting there and I picked it up and starting reading. I knew something about Zen, but not much. This book was different than what I expected. Its relevancy to everyday life (hence the title) was dead on. Just plain good advice. I bought the book, read it twice, and then went on to read Kapleau's "The Three Pillars of Zen".

Now, the Kapleau book was a totally different animal. I still have mixed feelings about this book which has enticed so many into Zen practice. There's a chapter that has quotes from many Japanese people about their enlightenment experiences. It felt somewhat like a highly evolved infomercial. I, too, could actually become enlightened?! Wow! I'll buy that!

But, there was my big hook (as it has been for many others). I had meditated for years, but it was "just" to be calmer. Now, I discovered there was some really big reward for meditating!

I was also reeled in easily by other things that spoke just to me: I feel very comfortable with Japanese culture and its aesthetics. The austerity and strictness of Japanese Zen Buddhism appeals to me. And lastly, all the crazy stories and writing seemed like an impenetrable puzzle that I wanted (and still do) get to the bottom of.

So, Zen Buddhism had me by my proverbial balls.

I love the Dalai Lama and his teachings. There is much about Tibetan Buddhism that I am very attracted to, but it just doesn't hook me.

There are many schools of Buddhism, each with their own merits, traditions and practices.

The Dalai Lama suggested that Westerners looking for a path not turn to Buddhism so easily, but find that which is the same in the religion of their heritage, I thought, "Yeah, he's right", but there's nothing in Judaism that hooks me at all. I'm not running from it, but I sure have one big obstacle in regards to it: I don't believe in God. Sure, I could see "God" as a metaphor, but why bother when I have found something in which I don't have to compromise anything?

I have great faith in Zen. That's probably the most important thing. There's an enormous amount about Zen that I don't understand. This is fine, and in fact, it keeps me hanging in there with it. My desire to understand, not just intellectually but with experience, is great. But I also trust that the Buddha's teachings are the absolute truth. Of this I have no doubt, none at all. The teachings of the ancestors in the Zen tradition, well, they intrigue me. The teaching stories and methods of "training" that this tradition offers is one that I wrestle with, but I have some reservations and doubts about. This keeps things lively! But, again, I stil have great faith that it "works" (for me).


I think this is key. You know you've found the right path for you when you discover that you have enough faith to engage fully.

Image Note: This Japanese scroll calligraphy of Bodhidharma reads “Zen points directly to the human heart, see into your nature and become Buddha”. Hakuin Ekaku
1685-1768)

Thoughts on this Sunday night

Well, folks, I'm back from my retreat. I feel like I've had a brain-cleaning. I sure needed to clear my mind, as anyone who's been reading this blog recently can attest to.

Some folks may bristle. Maybe I won't be cranky! Maybe I'll proselytize: "Get thee to a meditation retreat!" Well, I might proselytize a wee bit. Heck, I might proselytize a lot. Here's why:

Zen is not a religion. If I "proselytize", I'm not trying to get you to believe in anything. I'm not trying to get you to not believe in anything, either. Okay, I'm not trying to get you to do anything, for that matter.

It's just this - nothing, and how hard can I stress this? - NOTHING - has ever really helped with my depression. That is, nothing except Zen. Or perhaps I should be clearer about this, nothing except meditation. I won't pretend that I know enough about Zen Buddhism to tell you anything about it. Sure, I know something, but I am not a Zen teacher, not by a long shot. I meditate. That's all.

My experience has taught me that by engaging in long periods of meditation (and this was a short one, comparatively), I seem to be able to break the cycle of depression.

It's doesn't have to be "Zen". Jon Kabat-Zinn writes at length about meditation as a tool for easing physical and emotional pain. Meditation as medicine. It's powerful stuff, indeed. I just now discovered, when finding a link to his name, that there's a book that I wasn't aware of that he's co-authored called "The Mindful Way through Depression: Freeing Yourself from Chronic Unhappiness".

Today's post will be brief (for me). Just saying "hello" again. Even though I've only been away from this blog for barely a few days, it feels like it was a few months ago that I was sitting in this very seat, writing my bleak missives. The last two days have been beautiful. The sky has been intensely blue. The air feels crisp but it's not cold yet. I haven't noticed a beautiful day in quite a while. Saturday was spectacular, but I know that if it had occurred the Saturday before, I would not have noticed it at all.

Depression is like wearing a heavy shroud. It seems as if it would be easy to throw it off at any time, but it is not. It takes work. And for all I know, I may wake up tomorrow once again covered in that gray cloth. At least I've had a few beautiful days.

How was Saturday for you? What was the weather like, both inside and out?

Photo note: Here's an assignment (though I believe I gave my readers an assignment for while I was away and that didn't work out too well. . .) Go outside and look at something.

The expletives deleted have been deleted

On Saturday mornings, I go to the Treetop Zen Center. It's about 40 minutes from my home and so I have time to think, look at the changing scenery and listen to the radio. On my way there today, I decided that when I got home I was going to expunge some of my "political" rants from this blog. I had written last night that I was going to leave them be, but as I got to thinking about how many hits I was getting simply because I had written two posts with the words "rouge cou" (French for red neck), I thought it was time to put an end to that. A part of me thought something along these lines - if I can pull 'em in because of those words, maybe they'll read some other stuff. Not very likely, as much as I'd like it to be true.

On the first Saturday of each month, there is Fusatsu, the renewal of vows ceremony. I didn't know which vow we were to be focusing on this month and I was in for a surprise and yet another signal from the world that I should lay off writing about politics, for here's this month's precept:

"I vow to not criticize others while elevating myself."

On my way home today, I listened to opera on National Public Radio instead of talk radio. Keeping my finger from pressing the button that would change the station was like fighting an addiction. About two miles from my house, I noticed a sign for a road that I've never noticed before. I thought I had taken the wrong road. I got out my map and saw that I had not and realized I was disoriented. What else have I not been noticing while I've been listening to talk radio (and yelling back at them in my head)?

I decided that not only would I delete my entries about Palin, but the ones I wrote about the Clintons. What good do they serve? Pointing out others' hypocrisies does not further anything but more divisiveness.

I haven't completely culled all the political entries. I've left the ones where I've wrestled with conflicting feelings. But the ones where I've been writing from a place of fear and self-righteous indignation, they are gone (at least I think they are all gone). I will see a big dip in hits on this site. No matter. Arguing politics was never my aim.

Painting note: Agapanthus, Claude Monet 1920
At-one-ment with nature.

In appreciation of suffering

Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack
in everything
That's how the light gets in
-from "Anthem" by Leonard Cohen

Last week, a senior student at the Zendo played this song by Leonard Cohen. He also used these lines as an opening into his talk. Last night, at the end of the movie, "Duck", this song played while the credits rolled.

I had never heard this song before this week. It's not popular, and even if it was, I don't listen to anything but talk radio.

I don't like these kinds of coincidences. The chances of them happening are too small. Another one happened this week, which had an even slimmer chance of happening, but I can't remember what it was. Perhaps I blocked it out of my memory, for I remember that it was truly freaky, and even Dick, who is more of a skeptic than I (if that's possible) was unnerved.

Odd coincidences aside, I like what these lines have to say (or at least what I think what they have to say). I have often felt grateful for my the "cracks" in my personality and history, for they have always been openings towards a greater understanding and appreciation of being alive. These "bad things" have given me insight into others and myself and made me, hopefully, more compassionate.

I have often wondered (and have written about it here) about the connection between creativity and craziness. At times I have thought it a myth that without a certain amount of craziness or "bad experiences", there would not be the impetus to create. In the last few months, I have more or less decided that this is not a myth and that without some suffering of some kind, life tends to go unexamined.

This is not to say that when suffering ceases, so does creativity. Poetry that reveals nature (or the nature of things) is very beautiful. But, who is the one who looks at the bird sitting on the rock, the one who wrote that poetry? Intuitively, I think the author must have seen or experienced suffering, for it is in these moments (or after them) that we tend to see what is beautiful.

When my mother died, after I left the lawyer's office where I signed some papers, I came out onto the street and noticed the smell of the river. When had I ever noticed it before? Never in that neighborhood, filled with swarms of people, buses and cars.
But that day, I did, and I followed it until I came upon a restaurant with outdoor seating. The white tablecloths fluttered in the breeze. I looked at the menu and saw that the prices were too steep for me. I wanted to sit there, have a bite to eat and enjoy the beautiful day, so I examined the contents of my wallet (for that was all the money to my name, literally) and figured out that I could indeed buy an appetizer and have money for the tip, so I sat down and ordered something. I ate leisurely and with a deep appreciation for life.

My mother died as a result of a car accident. She was on her way back from a weekend in the country. At her apartment, hand washed clothing hung from a wooden drying rack in the bathtub. Of course, she expected to come home, fold up these clothes and put them away. But she did not. Seeing those clothes in the bathtub woke me up to the preciousness of life (and the cold reality of her death).

We do not expect to die, even if it's inevitable for all of us. We go about our everyday business, like washing clothes, with the expectation that we might be wearing them tomorrow.

I ate that overpriced meal near the river even though I couldn't "afford it". Was I thrown out of my apartment for non-payment because of this one little luxury? No.

That day, I realized I could not afford to live my life afraid of what might be. I realized that every day was an opportunity to truly appreciate what is. No, I don't remember this every day, for I'm pretty clouded by my aches and pains and neuroses. I'm not the Dalai Lama (at least not yet).

Recently, I've spent a lot of time explaining to people I know that everything is okay. I've got some undiagnosed problem involving my back which hurts like hell and makes it difficult to walk or stand for more than a few minutes. I'm filing for bankruptcy. It's okay. The star gazer lilies are blooming. Juvenile hummingbirds and rose breasted grosbeaks are practicing flying in my back yard.

I do not live in Darfur. I don't have cancer.

I know I'm repeating some of what I've written before, but in different words. This concept bears repeating, I'd say. So many of us walk around in desperation, when we really have much to appreciate.

I know I've hated it when people have told me things like "god gives you only as much as you can handle." What kind of god is that? I've also heard this story from an Orthodox Jewish friend, who said that god picks a certain number of people to give extra troubles to because he loves them the most, for those problems make them into people of extra strength and spirit.

I don't believe these things (though I have to say, I don't believe in god either). Yet, I do believe that we must make sense out of nonsense or adversity. It's not that it's been given to us for a reason. It's that we must make reasons, or in other words, learn.

Mistakes, accidents, adversity. . .they all have something to teach us, if we want to grow. This is life.

Photo note: The set from Shelagh Stephenson's play "Enlightenment"

Giddy

I am giddy. Thinking this a funny word, I looked up the definition and found its history to be quite apropos to the way I'm feeling today:

gid·dy
adj. gid·di·er, gid·di·est
1.
a. Having a reeling, lightheaded sensation; dizzy.
b. Causing or capable of causing dizziness: a giddy climb to the topmast.
2. Frivolous and lighthearted; flighty.
intr. & tr.v. gid·died, gid·dy·ing, gid·dies
To become or make giddy.
[Middle English gidi, crazy, from Old English gidig; see gheu()- in Indo-European roots.]
giddi·ly adv.
giddi·ness n.
Synonyms: giddy, dizzy, vertiginous
These adjectives mean producing a sensation of whirling and a tendency to fall: a giddy precipice; a dizzy pinnacle; a vertiginous height.
Word History: The word giddy refers to fairly lightweight experiences or situations, but at one time it had to do with profundities. Giddy can be traced back to the same Germanic root *gud- that has given us the word God. The Germanic word *gudigaz formed on this root meant "possessed by a god." Such possession can be a rather unbalancing experience, and so it is not surprising that the Old English descendant of *gudigaz, gidig, meant "mad, possessed by an evil spirit," or that the Middle English development of gidig, gidi, meant the same thing, as well as "foolish; mad (used of an animal); dizzy; uncertain, unstable." Our sense "lighthearted, frivolous" represents the ultimate secularization of giddy.
The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition copyright ©2000 by Houghton Mifflin Company.

By all standards of our society, I should be miserable. I filed for bankruptcy last week. I am unemployed. I don't have the money to pay my property taxes or gas for my car. I imagine that this coming winter Dick and I may be huddling around the oven, living on ramen and wearing three pairs of gloves indoors. We wore hats this past year, so how much lower can you go?

Now, most people would keep bankruptcy a deep dark secret, for we don't talk about money or sex, especially if there's a problem. I figure I'm just on the cutting edge of a big trend, the way things are going in this economy, so I might as well speak the truth. I'm broke.

But look, I'm not living in Burma or Darfur. I have a roof over my head. I have food to eat and occasionally it'll be steak. I have access to books and music and the internet (for I'd rather give up my phone service than that).

I have proven the aphorism that "money doesn't buy happiness". Or maybe it's the other way around - poverty doesn't breed misery (which isn't something I do hear).

What's the cause of my outrageously good mood? Well, the winter's over, for one. But that can't explain it entirely. There have been many Springs, Summers and Falls in which I was miserable. A nice day? Oh no - I couldn't hack it, for it made a mockery of my depression. The warm sun would only make me feel obligated to enjoy something and I could not. I wished for rain and clouds, so I could stay inside, to sleep or just provide cover from that dreaded happy sun.

This winter, I had a grueling depression. I considered suicide in a cold, intellectual manner that, frankly, scared the crap out of me. I thought it was time to go, that I'd had enough, that I was old enough to justify it and it made good sense.

But I'm a survivor and, besides, I truly feel suicide is immoral and a very cruel thing to do to ones' loved ones. I got some help, which didn't put much of a dent in my depression.

Then, one day it ended. Poof! What ended it? I started to draw silly drawings. It's all here: click on "EIIIProducts" in the tags section to the right and you'll find them. Did my depression return when I stopped drawing? No.

I was going to say that I have no idea why this little thing made me snap out of it. But I suspect is was only this: I re-found my sense of humor. Without it, I'd be dead. No joke.

Adding to my outrageously good mood is a new development. I have found a wonderful Sangha (a community of Zen Buddhist practitioners). They are warm, welcoming and very serious. And so, my meditation practice has been reinvigorated. Meditation has been another life saver for me.

Tonight, a dog joined us during zazen. The teacher asked me a question, to which I gave a rather bumbling answer (I am not used to talking about Zen much, if at all). After I spoke, the dog came up to me and licked my nose. I thought "Who could ever ask if a dog has Buddha nature or not?!" I said nothing, but I smiled, a smile of such pure and unadulterated joy.

On my way home, winding through the back roads, the full moon seemed bigger than round. It called to me to wake up to life, even more than I have been doing. I followed the moon and it followed me.

The moon sung to me, the evening gatha:

Let me respectfully remind you,
life and death are of supreme importance.
Time swiftly passes by and opportunity is lost.
Each of us should strive to awaken... awaken...
Take heed.
Do not squander your life.


Image Note: Yoshitoshi Taiso (1839-1892) "Itsukushima Moon" from the series "One Hundred Aspects of the Moon"

The Way

When I noticed that my last post included various forms of the word hate, I figured it was time to re-post another entry from my abandoned blog:

The Great Way is not difficult

for those who have no preferences.

When love and hate are both absent

everything becomes clear and undisguised.

Make the smallest distinction, however,

and heaven and earth are set infinitely apart.

- from the Faith in Mind Sutra

I was looking over my posts and noticed that I use the expressions "I hate" and "I love" an awful lot. It's interesting to notice it. One other thing I notice is that as some of my notions of what I "love and hate" fall away, I am getting more creative. For instance, there was a time I would have not, absolutely not, put glitz or fringe on anything. Period. I "hated that kind of thing". Well, now I just make stuff and see what happens. Funny what places one finds Zen. Everywhere, actually. Not just on the cushion, that's for sure. And lately for me, that's the last place I'm finding it!

Photo note: You may have asked yourself, "what does this bunch of beads have to do with Zen?" Nothing, except I made it (a necklace) last Spring, when I started allowing myself to try things I've always thought weren't "me", as mentioned above.